XII
“Shall we go to the beach this morning?” asked Countess Dolores after breakfast. “It will be fresh and cool there now.”
It was a merry morning trip. Both of the little girls went with them, and Johannes carried a small folding chair, and his friend’s book. The countess took a seat in a beach-chair, and Johannes sat at her feet and read aloud to her, while the two children—their skirts tucked up, and their little feet and legs bare and pink in the clear light—busied themselves in the water and sand, with their pails and shovels.
Everything was flooded with sunshine, and clearly, beautifully tinted:—the knotted blonde tresses of the little girls—beneath their broad-brimmed white beach-hats—against the delicate blue of the horizon; the still deeper blue of the sea wherein could be seen the bright figures of the bathers in their red and blue bathing-dresses; and right and left the pure white sand, and the snowy foam.
Johannes had indeed become quite accustomed to what had so pained him at first—the profanation of the sea by human beings—so they were happy hours.
He resolved this morning to resume his inquiries after Markus, as soon as he was at liberty to do so.
They had not been sitting long on the beach when Van Lieverlee came sauntering-up, arrayed in white flannel. He was without a waistcoat, but wore a lilac shirt, and a wide, black-silk girdle, and had on a straw hat.
He gave the countess a graceful cordial greeting, and immediately said to Johannes, this time without irony:
“I sent to my uncle, this morning, for information. Your friend is not there now. He received his discharge last Saturday on account of his disorderly conduct.”
“What had he done?” asked Johannes.
“He had delivered an address at the exchange when, mark you, he had gone there on a matter of business. Now,” said Van Lieverlee, looking at the countess with a smile, “it is quite obvious that a man of affairs could not retain such a clerk as that. It takes my uncle Van Trigt, who is so jealous of his good name, to deal with such cases.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Dolores.
“It depends, though, upon what he said,” ventured Johannes.
“No! One talks about business at the exchange—not about reason and morality. There is a time and a place for everything. My uncle was well satisfied with him in all else. He had taken him for a rather well-bred person, he said. But the man has a remarkable propensity for discoursing in public places.”
“Where is he now?”
“Where is any idler who has received his discharge? Off looking for an easy berth, L should say.”
“Is your friend so very poor?” asked the countess, in a serious whisper, as one would speak over the shame of a kinsman.
“Of course,” replied Johannes, with a positiveness that was a challenge. “Indeed, he would be ashamed not to be poor.”
“I think such men insufferable!” exclaimed Van Lieverlee. “As Socrates said, their conceit can be seen through the holes in their clothes. Without even opening their mouths they—every one of them—seem to be forever preaching morals and finding fault. I hate the tribe. They are of all men the most turbulent and dangerous.”
Johannes had never yet seen Van Lieverlee so angry, but he remained cool throughout the tirade, and kept his temper.
The countess said in a languid voice:
“He certainly is very immoderate. I cannot say, either, that such pronounced types are to my taste.”
Johannes was silent, and the other two talked together a while longer. The children came up nearer, and lying down in the clean, clear sand, they listened to the conversation. It was a bright group, for they were all dressed in white, except Johannes.
At last Van Lieverlee rose to go, and the countess, clinging to his hand, with a certain warmth of manner said:
“Of course you are coming to dinner?”
“Most assuredly!” replied Van Lieverlee.
After he had gone, there were several moments of constrained silence—a sort of suspense so obvious that even the children did not resume their chatter as usual, but continued silently playing with the sand, as if waiting for something to be said.
Johannes also began to comprehend that something was pending, but he had no idea of what it could be.
At last the lady said, rather hesitatingly, while tracing all kinds of curious figures in the sand, with her parasol:
“Have you not observed anything, Johannes?”
“Observed anything? I? No, Mevrouw,” replied Johannes, with some discomposure. He surely had observed nothing.
“I have!” said Olga, decidedly, without looking up.
“I, too!” lisped Frieda after her.
“Hear the little smarties!” said Mevrouw, laughing in confusion, and blushing. “Well, what have you observed?”
“A new papa!” replied Olga.
“A new papa!” repeated Frieda.
Johannes looked up in some surprise and perplexity, into the beautiful, laughing eyes, and exquisite, blushing face of his friend.
Her laugh was a confirmation; and accompanying her question with a shake of the head, she continued:
“Really, do you not understand yet?”
“No,” replied Johannes, in all seriousness. “Who is the new papa?”
“There he goes,” said Olga, pointing with her little white finger after Van Lieverlee. And Frieda, too, stretched out her little hand in his direction.
“Fie, children! Do not point,” said Mevrouw.
And Johannes began to comprehend—much as one does who has fallen out of a window, or has been struck on the head with a stone. As in the latter case, his first thought was astonishment at the cause of the blow, and that he could possibly survive it.
The blue air, the sea, the sand, the series of light-green dunes, the houses, the white figures—everything reeled and whirled, and then grew altogether black. He could not think, but only felt that he was extremely uncomfortable and qualmish. He was obliged to go.
As he stood up, he heard the words: “How pale you are!” That was the last. Then he walked away, beside the sea, hearing nothing save the washing of the waves upon the sand and the rushing of the blood in his ears.
He staggered a little back and forth, as if he had been drinking too much, and he wondered how that could be.
At last he could no longer see the people or houses—only water, sky, and sand.
It seemed to have been his intention; for, weak and limp, he went and lay down in the loose sand, and fell into a drowse.